


Trust In His Hands

by cadkitten



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Explicit Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: He can't help it. Ever since seeing the bruises on Kevin's neck, Neil hasn't been able to get theideaout of his mind. It's lodged, stuffed into the pipes of his mind like a waterlogged towel, something he's not quite familiar with and a little disturbed by, but only a little.





	Trust In His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> For my writing challenge #19 Breath Play  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena

He can't help it. Ever since seeing the bruises on Kevin's neck, Neil hasn't been able to get the _idea_ out of his mind. It's lodged, stuffed into the pipes of his mind like a waterlogged towel, something he's not quite familiar with and a little disturbed by, but only a little. It's these thoughts that run through his mind in the dead of the night and it's the way he's been staring at Andrew's hands. It's in the way he curls his fingers around his own throat and ponders. 

_What if such an action didn't have to mean pain?_

It takes him weeks to actually get to that point, days stretched before him like some yawning chasm just waiting to swallow him whole. This is new and he's never found his way through something like this before.

He finds himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror, eyes carefully avoiding his own face and his gaze firmly resting on his own hands instead. He lifts one from the counter and lets it hover in the air in front of his throat, closes his eyes and lets the contact come. His breath sticks in his throat – not by the force of his hand, but instead by the quiet hum that rises inside him.

It's the idea of what he's doing as much as it is the action itself. 

His fingers caress and then grip his throat as his free hand tightens on the counter. His knees go weak and he thinks that this is what weakness feels like – incapacitated by your own hand around your throat, a quivering mess. He grips tighter, pushes until he's heady with it, and he almost doesn't choke off the strangled shock of surprise at just how turned on he is. 

It's another week before he can do anything about it, before he can trust himself enough to take the next step.

He's far away from any mirror this time, has no interest in seeing his father's eyes staring back at him while he does such things as he has planned to himself. He's tucked himself away in his shared room and has carefully made sure everyone will be busy for a while. 

Masturbation has never been anything but a chore for him before this. Just something his body demanded and that he complied with – if only because it's been easier to accept what it needs rather than to deny it. He's tasted denial, knows what it feels like to desperately need and be powerless to claim. He's spent long hours on the road with no privacy, his hormone-ridden body telling him he was only a teenager. 

Now, at twenty, he's no better off. His entire being still desires, still exists in some in-between state where he both has little to no interest or investment in actually enjoying what he needs, and yet wanting it in very specific circumstances. Like _Andrew_. Andrew is all of those circumstances, rolled into one neat little package – an angry package, but one nonetheless. 

Neil's head thumps against the mattress, his hand settling over his throat and he gasps for his breath. His fingers tighten and something foreign skitters through his veins. His skin feels tight, two sizes too small, and his clothing feels like it's constricting, like it's doing a better job at choking him than his hand is. The hazy grasp of fear is at the edges of his consciousness and he latches onto it, wraps his mind around and _owns_ it.

He _cannot_ be afraid of his own hand. No one would be so _foolish_.

Distant memories slide across the ever running video of his life and he picks out the relevant ones, wraps them up in his hand and owns them, too: Riko's hand around his throat; his father's goons holding him and the slide of cold metal threatening and ever present; Andrew's hands on Kevin's throat; Andrew's hand on _his_ throat. The response is different this time, a memory he doesn't have to own, one he can let play. Maybe there's been a time where he was at least concerned about Andrew's ever-boiling anger, but that time is not now. His trust is omnipresent. Complete.

His fingers tighten and the rush comes, the same one that weakened his knees in the bathroom, the one that made him tremble as he'd settled to his knees and forced himself to think about what it would be like to do what he wants to now. His nerves are firing like someone's touching him, but no one's there. His breath is ragged like he's run a mile, but he's sitting still. 

When his hand slides into his pants, he finds he's harder than he thought he would be. He's closer than he meant to be. His hand tightens on his throat and the flash of worry arises that he could very well take this too far, could leave marks and everyone will know what he's been up to. The thought is almost as arousing as his present actions are and it's the spasm in his fingers that sends him over the edge, choking himself while all he wants to do is pant, crushing his throat as he strains against his own hand. He lays there in the aftermath, his hand still cupping his throat, his breath ragged in the otherwise silent room, and he wonders if this isn't what other people feel when they find time with themselves.

It isn't even two days before he's drawn back to the same place. This time he's certain he can be fast enough that he doesn't intentionally send everyone else away. He slips into the bedroom with everyone else on just the other side of a flimsy wall and closes the door.

It takes him a good ten minutes to work up to it, to convince himself they'll think he's just taking a nap. From there it's easy, his position so that he won't show anyone opening the door what he's really doing, his desperation enough to make him give in.

There's no lock on the bedroom door and maybe, _maybe_ that gives him a thrill in and of itself. He spares a moment's thought as his hand closes around his own throat, as his air becomes limited and his body lights up like the sky on the fourth of July.

 _He really is quite fucked up_.

His hand tightens and he doesn't even have to put his other hand around his cock. He's wanted this bad enough that it's been like a fly hovering at the edge of his vision, a little nagging thought clinging to the fraying edges of his psyche, and all it takes is a few rough jerks of his hips against the bed and he's gone.

Falling. Falling. _Falling_.

When he's done, he doesn't even bother with moving, only allows himself to sag against his own hold, to fade off to sleep with his hand still cradled around his own throat. There are bruises on his neck, the pale imprints of two of his fingers when he looks the next day. No one calls him on it though he feels Andrew's eyes on him a hundred times before they're alone. 

Still, Andrew doesn't ask. He slots his hand around Neil's neck and he narrows his eyes. Neil thinks he's wondering if he did this to him without remembering. If he wonders who did. His hand is gone in seconds and Neil is left to the quiet ghost that is certain to keep him up for hours on end. He's left with the missing warmth of such contact and he's left upset that he can't quite get off on the ghost of that presence now that he's felt it. 

There's no thrill in it anymore. It's not that he doesn't try. He spends weeks chasing that feeling, that fragile fleeting moment where he could find pleasure in his own touch and he reaches for it and it slides from his grasp every single time.

Some part of him resents Andrew for taking this from him, another part of him is silently thankful, perhaps because he knows it was only one of the many roads leading him toward his own demise. 

Still, he stands in the bathroom and tries again, his hand around his throat, his knuckles white and the pressure certainly more than enough to leave him with the evidence ringing his neck. The span of skin between thumb and forefinger shoves harder against his windpipe and he gasps for each breath, stares at his hand, and while he's half-hard, it's not what it once was.

Bare. Fleeting. Gone and maybe never to be replaced. 

Andrew doesn't know what he's done or – Neil believes – he'd never have done it.

It takes him weeks to realize he's not getting off enough for his body to cease its restless lilt, for the quiver in his stomach to unwind long enough for him to be able to be the careful presence he's always been with Andrew, and it only takes once to solidly slam him back down into reality.

A reality where he has to whisper, "No," when Andrew's silence asks him if he can blow him. He knows he can't hold back, can't keep himself from clinging to him like the mess he currently is, and he knows that's not something Andrew would be comfortable with. 

Andrew gives. Neil takes. Andrew takes. Neil doesn't _give_. Andrew won't let him. But Neil _needs_ to give, needs it like he needs his oxygen taken away, and he feels like he's screaming inside his head. He feels hot and heady and ready to combust.

He's testing the limits of what his jeans can take, his cock possibly harder than he's ever been, and he wants in a way he's never wanted before. He _needs_ the touch he's turning away and he falls apart under Andrew's silent presence. 

He can feel the walls crumbling, feel his resolve floating away like smoke on the air. He feels the slide of something darker settling in his bones and he slides down the wall to sit at Andrew's feet, leaves himself open and vulnerable and completely at his mercy because it feels like half of what he wants. 

He goes up in silent flames and lets it lick at his insides, lets the words echo in the chambers of his mind. Words he'll never dare to speak. A plea to garner what he desires, a confession to take the weight from his soul, a desperate bid to find himself on the other side of this damaged barricade he's created for himself.

Andrew's hand is like salvation. Warm even without it touching him, solid in a way Neil feels like he'll never be again. There's a hair's breadth between them and all it takes is his quiet, " _Yes or no_?" for Neil to feel like he's whole again. 

His answer is strangled, choked like he's already getting what he wants, and _yes_ turns into a mantra, a single word rebounding off the sides of his mental awareness. Inside his mind, he aims for the goal and Andrew doesn't move to stop him. 

"Choke me."

Andrew's hand tight around his throat. His pressure is different, a variant on what Neil's given himself. There's a comparison somewhere but Neil can't quite grasp it. 

His mind feels fuzzy at the edges and the unyielding video in his mind stutters and halts. He's stuck in a freeze-frame of _this_ – Andrew's hand on his neck, Andrew's fingers digging in where his own no longer do any good, Andrew's palm cutting off life. His trust is infinite, his senses dull and his nerves on overdrive. He's languishing in the shallows but he doesn't mind.

The pressure changes and Neil's certain he can't stop himself. His hands are deep in his pockets and he's arching from the floor. There's a whisper of a question in his ear and he nods frantically before there's a warm hand around his cock and his mind is in pieces.

The world alternates between nothing and everything. There's blackness and then there's Andrew in sharp relief, his hand around his cock warmer than his mouth would have been. The grip on his throat is like iron.

Neil comes like he's never been touched before. His screams are silent beneath the unrepentant press of skin and muscle and bone against his fragile windpipe. His mind is a whirlwind as much as it is a vast empty space. 

This time he's not falling; he's _flying_.

Andrew lets him breathe at the last possible second and Neil's body seizes again at the oxygen hitting his bloodstream. His thighs tense and his cock strains, and his balls are tighter than they've ever been. He doesn't have time to ask or beg or so much as think to do such a thing because all he can feel is how Andrew's shoulders are rigid, how his entire body is radiating what he's doing to himself, and Neil listens to the unfamiliar sound of Andrew's rising breath. 

He watches his eyes, sees the way his pupils are blown, sees the hesitance as much as he sees the pure undisguised need. His hands leave his pockets and he brings them up to the air by Andrew's head, watches him nod, and then there's silk on his fingers, needles and pins in his nerves, and he's as much a part of this as Andrew is. 

Their kiss is a jarring affair, something used to muffle the obscene sounds it's so clear Andrew wishes to make. He's used to Andrew's quiet and he finds he wants to be used to this instead. There's a storm inside him and it matches Neil's own.

When Andrew cums there's warmth on Neil's hip, but he doesn't look. There's fear in Andrew's eyes and Neil soothes it away until the hardness returns. 

This time when Andrew asks, the answer is _yes_ and then there's warmth around his cock, the wet cavern of Andrew's mouth heating him to his very core. His own hands covet the tender places where Andrew's hand has been and as he's losing himself, all he can think is that this is something else. 

They don't talk about it. Neil wouldn't expect them to. Andrew's never been good at addressing their sexuality head-on and Neil doesn't know where to start. 

It's easier to breathe again, easier to do what he's been doing this whole time now that he knows Andrew's touch in place of his own. He doesn't need the hand around his throat to quietly placate his body. It isn't a thrill like it had been those few times, but he manages to take the edge off between stops in Andrew's presence. 

It's not a consistent sort of affair. He doesn't find himself with Andrew's hand around his neck again until months later and when he does the fireworks are back and it's like the light show has been moved from Podunk nowhere to Central Park. He's left shaken and breathless and his arms and legs are useless hunks of bone and flesh and tendon hanging at the edges of one raw nerve. 

Andrew's kiss is tender and it brings him back down, shows him where home is and leaves him to quietly contemplate the sheer quantity of his trust.

His mind wraps around that single fact and he drinks it in like the life-giving augury that it is. 

His trust in Andrew is absolute.


End file.
